


Song in a Strange Land

by Cinaed



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Kiss, First Meetings, Lord/Vassal Dynamics, Loyalty, M/M, Music, Past Relationship(s), language lessons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 16:22:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4228668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how Balan became Bëor, and a few moments in that first year after Finrod came upon a company of Men at their campfire.  </p>
            </blockquote>





	Song in a Strange Land

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nisiedraws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nisiedraws/gifts).



> This is a belated birthday present for nisie, who's drawn absolutely lovely [Finrod/Beor](http://nisiedrawsstuff.tumblr.com/post/119127408297/first-part-of-a-finrod-beor-exchange-im-doing) [art](http://nisiedrawsstuff.tumblr.com/post/118456699622/finrod-felagund-and-his-beor-available-as-a). 
> 
> Thanks goes out to sath who encouraged me in writing this.

“Oh yes,  
says my heart.  
Whatever the day brings,  
let it bring.  
Whatever the music,  
let me sing.”

From Joyce Sidman’s “Song in a Strange Land”

 

* * *

 

When the thick foliage of the mountains gave way to sunlight and Balan beheld the western lands at last, he wept with joy. Even through his tears it seemed to him that these foothills and valley were fair. Each breath he took overwhelmed his senses, the air fresh and clean.

Strong hands seized his shoulders. When he blinked away his tears, Balan found Baran smiling at him, his face soft with wonder. He smiled back, but said nothing as he returned the embrace. All words seemed unfitting.

Perhaps Baran felt the same; he was silent as well.  

Over Baran’s shoulder, Balan watched the rest of their company emerge from beneath the trees. Some wept as Balan had. Others, Belen among them, gasped and stared. A daring handful darted further into the valley, laughing like children at play. He turned in his son’s grip. Tears blurred his sight once more at the joy and relief in every face. The strain of the journey fell from him as though it had never been. He had fulfilled his oath and brought his people safely to this new land. How could he be weary?

He raised his eyes towards the clear sky, tracking the sun, and found that it was late afternoon. It would be dark soon. For once the thought did not make him worry. “Come!” he called, stepping forward. “We will camp here, and explore in the morning.”

Shouts of agreement answered him.

As the fire and sunset painted the sky all manner of colours, Balan took up his harp. He knew few songs, most taught to him by the elves and a handful from travellers he had met. Still, that night he played songs of homecoming and celebration, and fragments of half-forgotten melodies, anything he could remember.

His people danced and sang with him, until one by one they could celebrate no more and sank to the ground, sleeping where they fell.

At last Balan alone remained awake. His head felt heavy, but he fought off sleep. Looking over his dreaming companions, he felt a swell of tender relief. They had trusted him to lead them over the mountains, and he had not failed them. Setting his harp aside, he touched the dark head of Baran, stroking the curly hair he had inherited from his mother. He had a thought that he should stoke the fire, but it was fleeting and came to nothing, for exhaustion weighed heavily upon him.

He stretched out beside Baran and slept, unafraid of the encroaching dark.

 

* * *

 

Balan awoke from a dream of shining towers and unearthly music, and found the music had followed him out of his dream.

When he opened his eyes, bewildered, a Vala sat before him, playing a harp. The fire was almost out; the dying embers cast a faint glow on golden hair and the instrument the Vala held. Surprised, Balan recognised it as his own harp.

The Vala sang songs Balan had never heard before, in a tongue he didn’t recognise, and yet something in Balan answered. Beautiful and strange visions of places he had never seen appeared in his mind. Yearning rose up in him, but he dared not move, for fear that the Vala would stop.  

Time passed, or perhaps it did not. Perhaps the Vala held time spellbound as well.

When the Vala lowered the harp and stood, Balan felt a tremor move through the company, a shared dismay that the Vala might be leaving. Then the Vala’s bright eyes settled upon Balan, and he smiled.

As before, something in Balan answered that warm look. He rose to his feet, weighing his words with unaccustomed care. The elves had spoken vaguely of the Valar, and nothing on what it would be like to meet one.

Before he could speak, Belen whispered under his breath, “To think a Vala would come to greet us….”

The Vala turned his head a little, his gaze settling upon Belen as though he’d heard. His smile changed. “Vala?” he said, puzzled. When not singing, his voice was unexpectedly deep.

Belen said nothing, flushed and stricken beneath the Vala’s look.

Understanding lit the Vala’s face and he laughed. Colour rose in his cheeks. He shook his head so violently that a few of strands of hair fell in front of his eyes. “Vala,” he said again, delightedly, and laughed again, as though it was a grand jest.

Balan didn’t need to know the singer’s language to understand a denial when he heard one. He stepped forward, those bright eyes focusing upon him once more. Amusement lingered in the singer’s face. Balan hesitated, uncertain what to say. Then he bowed and said, hoping his tone would carry the meaning, “You are not one of the Valar, yet you are wise and strange to us, my lord. I have never heard such music so beautiful, or seen such things before.”

The singer’s face brightened. He ran his fingers over the harp strings. When the last notes faded, he said, “Music!”

“Aye, music,” Balan said, and then grinned as he realised that their separate tongues shared at least one word and possibly more. His smile faltered as the stranger offered the harp to him. Was he asking Balan to play? Balan remembered how carelessly he had played earlier, laughing as he’d played half-forgotten songs, heedless and uncaring of any mistakes. Embarrassment closed his throat, and he half-shook his head.  

Perhaps his thoughts reflected in his face, because the singer looked closely at him. Then he smiled. Holding the harp in one hand, he brought his other hand to his chest and said a single word.

No, Balan realised. It wasn’t a word, but the singer’s name. “Finrod,” Balan repeated. The name was strange but pleasant to say. He said it again, carefully, and Finrod’s smile widened.

Then Balan returned the gesture, bowing again as he touched his chest. “Balan. I am Balan, my lord.” He gestured towards the rest of his companions, who had slowly risen to their feet and stood staring in wonder. “Lord Finrod, my kin and company.”

Finrod smiled. He moved to speak and then stopped, turning, as though he had heard something.

There came the sudden sound of horns, faint but clear, and hounds baying.

All around Balan, his people tensed, their faces startled in the firelight.

Balan’s hand moved to his side before he remembered that he had set his blade aside in celebration, knowing that he and his company were safe. Then he saw the calmness in Finrod’s features and felt a little foolish. Smiling, he waved his hand towards the distant sounds and asked, “Friends of yours, my lord?”

Finrod laughed and said something. If Balan didn’t understand the words, he understood the tone, amused and reassuring. This time when he offered the harp, Balan took it. Finrod’s hand was surprisingly warm; the heat seemed to linger where his fingers had brushed Balan’s knuckles.

Balan looked down at the harp that he had built with his own hands with what little craft he had learnt. He touched the strings gently, remembering the beauty that Finrod had coaxed from them. He wondered if Finrod would teach him, and what other songs he knew.  

“Father,” Baran said suddenly.

Balan looked up as Finrod stepped into the shadows beyond the campfire’s reach, his golden hair faintly aglow in the dim starlight, like a half-vanished ghost. “My lord?” he called, more startled than alarmed. Consternation gripped him when Finrod answered him in the same reassuring tone as before but made no move to return to the camp. Balan stepped forward to where the firelight met the darkness. “My lord, are you leaving so soon?”

Finrod answered him with another laugh. Then even the faint light of his hair was lost to the dark, leaving Balan to strain after his footsteps.

“My lord?” he called one more time. Nothing answered him, save for the uncertain whispers of his people and the faint murmuring of the wind in the trees. He stood listening a moment, considering Finrod’s warm smiles and the way he had offered up his name.

Then Balan turned. “Well!” he said, and smiled at the alarm in everyone’s faces. “Don’t worry so. Lord Finrod will return.” He looked over their camp, noticing for the first time its disordered state. “And perhaps the next time he will not catch us sleeping and we can be proper hosts.”

When many still looked uneasy, he added firmly, “Rest.”

 

* * *

 

For a time, when Balan had been young, they had lived by a river too powerful for nets, though a man could still fish so long as he kept his balance and wasn’t careless with his footing. His mother had taught him, the task simple if one had sharp eyes and quick hands.

Learning Finrod’s language felt a little like fishing, each shared word between their two tongues an easy catch, each new word a harder one. Balan never tired of it. He often walked together with Finrod after the others had wearied of their daily lessons, learning words for the joy of learning and to remain in Finrod’s company.  

“Thaun,” Finrod said, touching the pine-tree with light fingers.

“Thaun,” Balan repeated, the shape of the word strange in his mouth. He said it again, slowly. During these lessons, he’d discovered that he remembered the word best if he repeated it a few times, unlike Finrod, who heard a word once and knew it. He ran his hand over the trunk, still smooth and pale with youth. “Thaun,” he said one more time. “I think I can remember that.” When he lifted his gaze to Finrod, he caught the flicker of his shifting smile.

Laughter came easily to Finrod, and smiles easier still. In truth Balan thought he had only seen the elf-king frown when speaking of the Valar’s enemies and explaining that this was not a land without peace after all.

This smile had a different cast to it. Balan frowned. “Did I say it wrong, my lord?”

“No,” Finrod said. If Balan hadn’t been watching, he might have missed the slight widening of his smile. “No, you are very quick with your tongue.”

Finrod meant his compliment innocently, of course, but still warmth rose in Balan’s face. If anyone else had said such a thing, Balan would have answered with, _So my wife used to tell me_ , and a broad grin. Instead he said, “I have a good teacher, my lord.”

Stepping away from the pine-tree, Finrod laughed. The long sleeve of his robe brushed Balan’s arm.

Impulsively Balan touched the cuff, marvelling at the softness. Just as quickly he let go, at first alarmed and then relieved that he’d left no smudges behind. When he looked up, his face heated again at the amused question in Finrod’s eyes. “The elven work is so fine, my lord,” he said by way of explanation. He waved a hand towards his own clothes, made well enough, but of wool that he knew felt rough compared to Finrod’s robes. “Another craft for your people to teach us, if you are willing.”

He blinked as Finrod reached out. His long fingers settled lightly on Balan’s shoulder, his thumb rubbing slowly over the tunic’s rough wool. That strange smile was back upon Finrod’s face. “I’m always willing,” he said.

Again Balan thought to himself that Finrod didn’t realise how he sounded, but now he was less certain. His conviction dwindled further as Finrod’s thumb kept up that slow movement and he added lightly, “Though I would be more interested in a mingling of the two.”

The warmth of his hand seemed to spread through Balan. The late afternoon air had been cool; now it felt stifled and heavy as he took in a breath and met Finrod’s bright eyes, understanding the look for the first time. How often had Finrod smiled at him so, waiting for him to notice and respond? He felt like a blind fool.

But he was not one to linger long on past mistakes, except to learn from them. Finding his voice, he touched Finrod’s wrist and said, “As would I, my lord. But we weren’t finished with our lesson.”

A small puzzled crease appeared in Finrod’s brow, though he smiled. “Oh?”

“Yes, my lord,” Balan said, smiling. He drew Finrod’s hand away from his shoulder and then held it so that Finrod’s hand rested between his own. He ran his thumb across Finrod’s palm, the pale skin smooth save for the occasional callus. “Your hand,” he said, stroking across the knuckles as understanding lit Finrod’s face.

Finrod’s lips parted, but he said nothing. His eyes were fixed upon Balan so intently that it felt like an answering touch, his smile so bright that it almost hurt to witness.

At the look, Balan felt the years drop from him. He felt like a youth again, half-wild with impatience to cut to the end of the lesson. With effort, he kept himself from giving in to the temptation. Instead, grinning back, he slid his hand up Finrod’s arm and cupped his elbow through the soft sleeve. “And this, my lord, is your elbow.”

Finrod laughed, a deep, throaty sound that sent another swell of warmth through Balan. “So it is,” he murmured. He stepped closer, tipping his face towards Balan. “What else are we learning today?”

Finrod’s nearness was heady. This close it would only take Balan echoing Finrod’s movement for them to embrace fully. Bringing his hand to Finrod’s shoulder was half in answer to the question and half to keep himself steady. “Here we have your shoulder, my lord,” he said, and then had to repeat himself, for the words stuck in his dry throat. “And here, your jaw,” he added in a hoarse murmur, Finrod’s skin warm and smooth beneath his fingertips.

Finrod leaned into the touch, his half-lidded gaze still fixed upon Balan’s.

All speech fled Balan at the gesture. Mute, he pressed forward and kissed Finrod’s smiling mouth.

Finrod laughed into the kiss, delighted. His hand settled upon Balan’s back, urging him closer. When the kiss ended, Finrod took a breath and said, “I could grow used to such lessons.” His free hand touched his jaw, where Balan’s beard had brought a pink colour to his skin. Already the colour had begun to fade. “Though I admit I prefer that last lesson most of all.”

“As do I, my lord,” Balan said, smiling, and kissed him again to prove it.

Finrod’s hand tangled in Balan’s hair, keeping him close even as they caught their breaths. His expression was so pleased and fond that Balan’s chest tightened and he smiled, helplessly. A hint of mischief touched Finrod's voice. “Why, my dear, whatever are you thinking now?”

Balan flushed, because his thoughts had been more of a boy of twenty than a grown man with forty years and a marriage behind him. He shrugged, still smiling. “I was thinking how grateful I am that you were the one to find us that day, my lord,” he answered.

Finrod’s face softened. He stroked Balan’s beard, finding the silver among the dark. Then he cupped Balan’s jaw and pulled him, unresisting, in for another kiss, this one slow and lingering. When they parted again, Finrod murmured, “On that, Balan, you have my wholehearted agreement.” He leaned in for another kiss and then stilled. He raised his head, as though he’d heard some far-off sound too faint for Balan’s ears. Then he wrinkled his nose.

The act was so unkingly that Balan laughed.

“Hush,” Finrod said, though he laughed as well. Then his lips twitched ruefully and he sighed. “Baran is calling for us. It seems that we are late for supper.”

Returning to the hall and eating supper was an unwelcome thought. Balan would have been glad to skip the meal entirely, in favour of more kissing. He said so, grinning as he added, “And I am not so very hungry, my lord.”

Finrod raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps not for food,” he said with a sly smile.

Balan laughed even as he flushed. He wondered how many times he had misjudged such remarks as said in innocence. He reached out, smoothing a wrinkle from Finrod’s rumpled robe. “Aye, my lord,” he said and kissed him one last time, another slow kiss that he never wanted to end.  

 

* * *

 

Of late, Finrod looked often towards Nargothrond, his expression thoughtful, his customary smile dimmed. He did not say so, but Balan knew that he missed his kingdom and his people, and guessed that his responsibilities weighed upon him.

It should have been no surprise, then, when one morning Finrod said, “I return to Nargothrond in a fortnight,” and yet the words cut through Balan like a knife.

He should say something. Instead he stared at the boot clutched in his hand and tried to imagine Estolad without Finrod. It seemed impossible. The years stretched before him, not empty, for he had his sons and his people, but still unsatisfying without Finrod's bright presence. It would be like living without the sun. 

Balan stood and crossed the room, his gait slightly uneven with only one boot on. Finrod's unsmiling reflection watched him from the mirror.

"Take me with you," he said.

Finrod hadn’t expected that. Surprise bloomed on his face, and a flicker of what might have been a smile. Then he frowned. “I wouldn’t take you away from your people,” he said gently. “They look to you--”

“They have Baran,” said Balan, hoping he hadn’t imagined Finrod’s smile. He stepped closer. “With your counsel he has grown to a fine leader. He has Beren, besides, who will support him. And I--” He faltered, seeing no encouragement in Finrod’s face. Helplessly he said, “My lord, I have been a chieftain and a husband and a father. Now I would be your vassal.”

Finrod made no answer.

Despairing a little, Balan knelt. He clasped Finrod’s hand in his and pressed it to his lips. “My lord,” he pleaded. “I vow to serve you for all my remaining days. Have of me what you will.”

Finrod’s hand tensed in his. Then Balan bowed his head against the feel of fingers stroking his hair, uncertain what the soft touch meant. After a long silence, Finrod said, “Do not make oaths so lightly, my dear. They are dangerous things, and often go ill.”

Balan shook his head. When he raised his head, Finrod’s face was set and grave. “I vowed once to bring my people safely over the mountains. That promise was heavy, but I bore it willingly. Let me have this vow, my lord. It is such a light thing, and would bring me joy.”

The graveness left Finrod’s face slowly, like winter passing into spring. “If it would bring you joy, I shouldn’t refuse you,” Finrod said. He stroked Balan’s hair again, tenderly, and added in a low voice, “And it would bring me joy as well.”

He bent and kissed Balan, and the last of Balan’s dismay left him. When the kiss ended, Finrod kissed Balan’s brow and said, laughter once more in his voice, “Now get up. You may be my vassal, but I would not have you kneel to me.”

Happiness freed Balan’s tongue, and he grinned. “No, my lord? I can think of many things you might find pleasing.”

Finrod looked delighted, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He touched his fingertips to Balan’s mouth, tracing his lower lip. “Show me,” he said, a sweet command, and Balan obeyed gladly.

**Author's Note:**

> Nisie also drew [gorgeous art](http://nisiedrawsstuff.tumblr.com/post/128607375322/and-a-second-commission-for-cinaed-who-requested) for one of the later scenes in the story! Please go and admire how lovely it is. :)


End file.
